


Cap of Rushes

by igraine1419



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Cinderella Story. An AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cap of Rushes

Once upon a time in a soft green land of hills and rivers and valleys, there lived a hobbit. Having lost his wife in untimely sorrow, this hobbit lived many long years searching for things that were already found – spoons and pipes and hoes - until his wandering attentions were sought by one Iris Deephole. Her eyes were black and glimmering like the silk lining of his finest waistcoat – the one he wore for weddings and parties - and her mouth was curved and striking, but fierce and proud. Magnanimous to the last, she took his daughters under her cool dark wing and spoiled them with perfume and coloured ribbons and many tales of moonshine marriages that might be made if they played their cards right. 

The new wife supplanted the memory of the old; furnishing the hole in velvets she bought from market, spending the gold that had been stored in a stone jar under the bedroom floor, for times of need and hardship. The daughters were set idle tasks of needlepoint and singing, and all the work of the house was left to the son, dearly beloved youngest child of Belle Goodchild, so as to save the softness of their hands. The lasses had grown so plumped up with their own beauty and self-importance that they sat by whilst their brother swept the crumbs from beneath their perfectly curled feet. 

When the first dull rays of light slipped through the pantry window, Samwise was up on his hands and knees sweeping the hearths and laying the kindling for the fire. Then there was the breakfast to cook, bread to bake and the kitchen floor to scrub. Stuffing the crust into his mouth, he would sweep the bedroom where his step-mother had laid her head and tore the sheets off the mattress to launder. He would hear the sound of his sister’s high voices chattering and laughing as he worked, but they were of no more interest to him than the sound of the bickering sparrows on the garden fence. 

He was listening for another song altogether. 

Usually in the evening, alone in the back pantry where the stores were kept in clustered jars sealed with dust, settling his blankets on the hearthstone, and lying back to gaze out of the window at the deepening dusk, he would hear her. Quietly at first, a sighing sound of wings tattered by the wind, beating against the window glass, seeking entrance. Kneeling on the barrels under the casement, he reached to push it open and let her come inside, spinning and whirling in alarm, her white wings slicing through the darkness like lurching flames, bringing light to the dark little room. When she had calmed, she would perch on the mantelpiece and sing. Sometimes Sam could understand words within it, but often it was merely music, beautiful but so sad it tore his heart to hear it, and yet he would have her come time and time again. When she had finished her song, she would lean down and pluck a white feather from her pink breast, and holding it in her small curved beak, hovered over his head in a whistle of air as she dropped it, spinning into his lap. 

_Back to the rushes,_ she would cry in farewell. _Back to the rushes…_

Once, Sam had crept out of the window and walked in the night, following where she led. But by the time he reached the water he had lost sight of her and found he had been trailing a mock glimpse of the moon captured in the river. There were rushes growing there and he tore up a handful and carried them back to the little room under the bottles and jars, weaving them by firelight until he had made a beautiful hat he would wear in her honour, with the soft ghostly feathers peeking around the brim. He paid no attention to the scornful jeers of his stepmother and sisters, nor the weary glances his father spared him, whenever he could bear to look him in the eye. He would not take off his hat, woven from his love and longing, and through this habit he managed to lose his name and all now called him Cap of rushes. 

Now it came to pass that a certain gentlehobbit of the Shire was to hold a grand party in the grounds of the great smial that was known as Bag End. The father was bursting with the good news as he stumbled into the kitchen after his hours of work were done, his eyes glowing with the anticipation of his wife’s good approval. Iris sat at the kitchen table, with her chin in her hands, watching as her stepdaughters curled each other’s hair and her stepson cooked the evening meal. 

“What has made you so merry husband?” she remarked, her eyes flat and black as coals. “Have you been lingering by the Bush?”

“No, indeed, wife, I have some right good news!” he grinned, easing himself to the head of the table, where he stood in some dignity, striking the stones with his stick for emphasis. “Some – right - fine - news!”

Iris rolled her eyes. “Let us have it then.”

“Mr Frodo Baggins is to hold a party….” He announced, pausing for effect. “All are invited…and ‘tis said he’s looking to take a wife.”

The father grinned crookedly as he watched his wife rising to her feet, her pale face flooding with deep colour. “Did you hear that, daughters?”

The three sisters let the ribbons fall from their hands as they stared into their own futures as clearly as if a seeing stone had been set before them. 

“When is it to be?” Iris demanded. “We must buy silk for new dresses and ribbons and petticoats – our daughters must be seen….”

“Yes, yes, indeed…’tis this weeks end, me dear and there’ll be no prettier lasses then thine, sure enough…” He kissed his wife’s hand and she allowed it, for she was looking into her own future and seeing within it a room made of jems and ivory with herself encased within it like a golden bird in a precious cage.

Samwise had been listening to his father’s news as he stirred the ladle through the bubbling pot of stew and as he listened, his heart soared within him as though it had been given wings.

Before his mother died he had walked to Bag End with his father and been introduced to Mr Frodo Baggins, the heir to the smial that had once belonged to kindly Mr Bilbo Baggins who had thought so well of him that he had seen fit to teach him the mystery of letters and words. Mr Frodo had given him a soft sweet cake full of currants and had promised to carry on Mr Bilbo’s teaching, if that was what Sam wanted. Sam had wanted it desperately, but being in awe of the beautiful young master, was too shy to respond, his voice iced over like a well in winter. 

Hastily, his father stepped in and thanked Mr Frodo profusely. Afterwards, being so ashamed of his son’s stubborn silence, he had locked him in his room and denied him any hope of a return to Bag End, despite Mr Frodo’s promise. For years Sam had yearned for the memory of that moment, that promise spoken so warmly and the sweet crumble of that cake. Often it would slip into his dreams, heat thawing the ice in his soul and drawing out long sighs of melting pleasure that would slide into his hand. 

He wanted to go to the party with a longing that dug into his heart like a burrowing thorn and every night he dreamed of the shape of Frodo’s hands, blinking back tears which turned them to restless white wings, beating and beating as though trying to wake him. 

His step-mother and sisters spent the days leading up to the party sewing dresses and petticoats by candlelight until their fingers were sore with the pricking needle and their tongues were quite worn out with their incessant chatter. Sam swept the day’s dust from under the hearth and tried not to listen to their talk of loveless marriages, jewels and hats and silver spoons. He kept his memory of Mr Frodo Baggins as close to his heart as he could for fear of breaking it, and he knew that Mr Frodo was as the moon and stars to them and just as far out of their reach.

~ ~ ~

On the evening of the grand party, his sisters closeted themselves in their rooms as they dressed up in rich, sickly shades of green and pink and yellow, arranging their hair in shivering heaps of ribbons and bows. His father was up the hill, hanging lanterns around the garden and his stepmother was biding her time. Sam polished the plates one by one until they shone.

When the clock struck eight, his sisters emerged, pink and excited beneath a heavy mask of powder and paint that obscured their pretty faces. Iris, with her fine lace parasol, snapped at her stepdaughters to try and act like Gentlefolk and keep their chins up as they walked into the garden. She cast Sam a scornful look as she swept them out into the night. 

“Mind those plates, Cap of Rushes,” she said. “And make sure my bed is warm when I get in.” 

The door closed with a spiteful snap and Sam was left alone. 

Sinking down beside the hearth, he let the sorrow spill out and cried until his eyes were red and sore. He cried so bitterly, he didn’t see the white bird come in through the window and circle three times around his head. 

_“You want to go to the party and see the master?”_ the bird sang from the mantelpiece. 

Sam looked up, rubbing at his face with the back of his hand, smearing dirt over the bridge of his nose. “I only wish I could…but I have nothing but these old breeches and this hat and they won’t do at all…”

The bird fluttered her wings. _“Dear one, only pluck a feather from my breast and you shall have your wish…”_

Sam looked at the bird and imagined tearing a feather from that tender breast and shook his head. “I can’t do that…”

 _“Please do as I ask,”_ the bird sang and she sat very still and thrust out her curved and beautiful chest. 

“Very well,” Sam sighed, feeling that there was no other choice, and walked up to the bird, stroking her softly with his finger before plucking out the feather with a swift twist, praying that he caused her little pain. 

_“Very good!”_ the bird whistled, ruffling her feathers and closing her eyes. _“Close your eyes!”_

Sam did as he was bid, holding the soft feather in his hand.

 _“Make your wish!”_ the little bird demanded.

Sam could feel the cool wind of her wings over his head as he wished hard for a fine suit of clothes and something to cover his face so that he might not be recognised. 

_“There!”_ she announced and Sam felt a soft shuddering all over his skin as though a thousand tiny white feathers were licking him. Feeling blindly with his hands, he sensed layered softness under his hands, deeper and thicker than velvet, warmer than silk. Slowly opening his hands, he gazed down at his own feet peeking out from beneath long silvery-white breeches, the fabric fluttering as light as air, as though it clung to him by will alone. There was also a long tunic and waistcoat, embroidered with glimmers of star-bright thread, and as he pressed his hands to his face, he discovered a wide mask of feathers resting over his eyes. He knew without looking that they were white.

“This is too grand for me!” Sam laughed, feeling himself all over. 

_“Go now, little one,”_ the bird urged. _“Before it is too late…go now my son…but be sure to be back by midnight or this plumage with fall away and you will be standing in nothing but your skin…”_

“I will remember, thank you,” Sam said, watching the bird fleeing towards the window in a hasty curve. 

_“Good luck!”_ she chirruped and then soared up into the night.

~ ~ ~ 

As soon as Sam entered the garden, he felt the eyes upon him, glancing off the beauty of his feather-white shirt as he drifted in and out of the trees looking for his host. He had decided a glimpse would be enough. Just to be walking here again, in this place that inhabited his dreams – a shadow-world made flesh by the magic of his own feet passing over the wet grass.

And then suddenly he was there, Mr Frodo Baggins, standing under the frozen rose arbour with a glass in his hand, looking dazedly about at all the thronging lasses gazing with moon-eyes and thrusting out their chests, their pulses fluttering like trapped butterflies. Diverted by something bright catching the corner of his eye, he looked across to the apple trees and then he started and stared, his bright eyes shining as he put down his glass and parted the crowds like a knife through butter.

Whispers sounded like the rustle of leaves as silently, he took Sam’s hand and led him onto the dance floor with a smile. Sam’s breath stopped dead in his throat, but he smiled and shivered and felt the cool, soft press of those delicate fingers around his wrist. The music had ground to an abrupt halt, but now it took up the lost thread and resumed a slow, lazy waltz. Sam’s feet felt light as they stumbled over the grass, dancing for the first time before a hundred pairs of interrogating eyes. But note by note, the feeling of unease gave way to delight as he allowed himself to be swung onto his heels, his hands slipping on crimson velvet, smoky dark hair brushing against his cheek like feathers, as the stars tilted above.

“Don’t believe the rumours,” Mr Frodo whispered, his breath fire against Sam’s ear. 

Sam’s eyes widened as he dwelt on these words. “You won’t be choosing a wife?” he stuttered. 

“No,” the gentlehobbit replied. “I have no need of a wife.”

The music finally faltered and died, but even though his feet were sore, Mr Frodo would not let go of this rare and beautiful bird and held it fast through fast dances and slow, longing to ask its name and yet fearing to scare it away, for its heart beat very fast and its breath was hasty. He wanted very much to peel away the mask from its eyes and reveal its true nature and yet his hands shook so they could only clutch at the thatch of tangled gold that framed the ragged wisps of white.

When the moon was caught high in the fork of the old russet tree, and the chime from the hall clock rang the hour of twelve, his dancing partner grew suddenly heavy as clay in his arms and his feet tripped over his own in ungaily steps, as though he was more swan than flesh and blood. 

“I have to go!” he muttered, struggling to get away. Mr Frodo held him more firmly, wanting at least to know his name. 

“Please wait,” Frodo urged, feeling feathers fill his hands, loosening his grip. 

“I’m sorry…” Sam stammered, alarmed at how fast the feather’s were flying, twisting into the air like snow ascending. Marking how his host’s eyes were distracted by the clouded air, he slipped away in the confusion, darting off over the garden wall before his true skin lay revealed in the moonlight beneath a hundred laughing eyes. 

By the time he reached home, there were but a few feathers left clinging scantily to his front parts and behind and his hair was powdered white. Breathing heavily, both frightened and aroused, he hurried to the hearth and taking up his dirty breeches and shirt, pulled them on in haste in case he had been followed home. Remembering his step-mother’s request, he wrapped a hot stone in a blanket and carried it into her bedroom, laying it in the centre of his mother’s bed and pulling up the sheets. But even this most despised of chores could not dampen the surging joy that made him want to kiss the pillows blind. 

Locking himself into the back pantry, he built the fire up hot and high, and lay on his back, running his hands up and down his aching body as he remembered the brush of smoky curls against his throat. 

Long into the night he lay awake, long after his father and stepmother had returned, trailing three disappointed daughters behind them. Long after the fire had crumbled into cinders and his memories had started to drift, piece by piece into dreams.

~ ~ ~

Mr Frodo Baggins looked out over the deserted garden, the lanterns hanging now like tattered flags, their light long extinguished. Yet the garden was not in darkness, for a thousand tiny feathers had settled on the ground like snow and were glowing with a strange and ghostly light.

Frodo sighed, wrapping his hands around his chest and shivering a little, for the night was chill, despite the season. He hadn’t expected much from this party. His friends had encouraged him, seeing how lonely he had become and how his cold and empty hole might be warmed by another’s presence. He hadn’t the heart to tell them how he had no desire for any lass, lady or farmhand. All the willing mistresses in the Shire would never entice him to marry. But a party seemed a fine way of cheering a damp and dismal Astron, where the spring seemed set to sleep until winter had come again. 

Stooping down to pick up a long, soft feather, Frodo brushed it back and forth against his cheek. He had shocked the whole company, that was evident and yet he felt nothing but regret that he had never learned the stranger’s name nor seen his face in full, only glanced the crescent of it as he leaned into the mask.

Just as he was about to turn and walk back into the smial, the feather still clutched within his hand, he was suddenly surprised by the most beautiful, soulful music that he had ever heard. Looking up, Frodo saw a little white bird in the sky, looping and falling as though its wings were beginning to fail with the effort. Desperately joyful and yet pleading, as though it were demanding something of him, something that it could not fulfil.

“What is it, little bird?” Frodo asked aloud.

 _“Come with me”,_ she sang. _“Come and I will show you!”_

“Very well,” Frodo replied, for he had never heard a bird speak in a mortal voice and being a curious sort of hobbit, he was intrigued. 

The bird darted ahead, calling shrilly for him to follow, her wings marking the path of feathers that lay scattered on the ground, glowing brightly. It was easy to follow, and with the encouraging song of the bird, he soon found his way in the dark, out of the garden and down the steep road, where the feathers were crushed and bent by the wheels of carts and carriages. 

He hadn’t walked far when the bird stopped calling and began a full-throated song, which bubbled and curled in its throat. It had perched on the lintel of a little low window at the back of a nearby hole, one that belonged to a Hamfast Gamgee, good faithful gardener and help. Frodo wondered why the bird should have led him to this place, and he frowned as he approached the window. 

“Why here, little bird?” he asked, peering in to see red firelight licking up the walls, reflecting off glass bottles, each flame infinitely multiplied. 

The bird only sang on, ruffling her wings impatiently, as though waiting for him to act. 

Looking down at his feet, Frodo could see that the trail of feathers ended here, and they billowed softly about his feet as he lingered, his face inches from the glass. 

_“Open the window,”_ the bird insisted. _“You will find it unlatched.”_

Urged on by the bird and by his own need to discover the truth, Frodo pressed his hands against the bottom of the pane and raised it, little by little, until the small round opening was revealed, mere inches from the ground, for the room was sunken into the earth. 

_“Climb in! Climb in!”_ the bird sang, excited now and spinning in dizzying circles over his head. 

Seeing nothing for it but to obey, Frodo set one foot on the window sill, crouched unsteadily for a moment, half in, half out, and then dropped down onto a barrel and then into the room.

~ ~ ~ 

Samwise Gamgee had almost fallen asleep, were it not for the excitement of the night and the unaccustomed taste of wine and sweetness in his mouth. He felt the breeze on the back of his neck and he heard the bird’s impatient song, and rousing himself a little, he sat up and turned to stare at the figure who was slipping through the window into his room. Alarmed, he hastily drew the ties of his breeches together and stared, gaping as the person collected himself from off the floor and brushed down the velvet of his breeches.

His eyes widening in surprise, he wrapped his arms around his tattered knees and shook his head, believing himself to be dreaming. 

Frodo, sensing his presence immediately, stood in the middle of the dusty little pantry and devoured him with his eyes. “Samwise Gamgee?” he breathed.

Sam swallowed and nodded, delighted to hear his name once more and spoken by such fair lips. “Aye,” he murmured. 

“You?” Frodo continued. “I met you once, when you were a lad. You were to come to me for lessons, why didn’t you come?”

Sam’s eyes fell, downcast. “I wanted to,” he groaned. “I wanted to with all my heart.”

Frodo moved closer. “I thought you’d gone to Tighfield, apprenticed years ago,” he said, looking around at the clutter of barrels and jars, old flat irons and garden tools. “What is this place?” 

“This is where I sleep,” Sam replied, indicating the rough blankets, dirty and soot stained, spread on the hard stones before the fire. 

Frodo shook his head in disbelief. “Your father, he always seemed to me a good hobbit, I can’t imagine what he is thinking of, treating you in such a way.”

“My father ain’t bad, he was bewitched and lost his senses…”

Frodo sat down on the blankets beside him, and Sam started to protest at the dirt and the ash but Frodo quieted him with a press of his cool fingers. “You can’t stay here, Sam. You must come back with me to Bag End. I have many rooms there and no one to fill them.”

Sam blinked in disbelief. “Oh, sir! I will do for you whatever you wish – I’ll cook and clean and mend and make up your beds…”

“No!” Frodo started. “No Sam, I don’t think you understand…” 

Standing up, Frodo drew a mask of white feathers from his pocket and, bending close, laid it over the bridge of Sam’s pert little nose, unfurling it with gentle fingers until it reached those delicately curving ears. “There,” he whispered, smiling in delight. “This … is how I want you…”

Sam’s eyes stuttered closed as Frodo leaned in to trace his lips over his in a lingering caress. “Not as a servant…”

“You mean…” Sam whispered. “You know?”

“Yes,” Frodo murmured. 

As warm lips pressed hard against his own, Sam finally understood. His lips gave way beneath the effort of restraint and soon he lay in Frodo’s arms, clutching at the silken hair that drifted over his hands and kissing him with a desperation borne of years of longing, his tongue tracing circles over and over the feather-soft lips, moaning and arching into the sweetness. 

A soft tapping at the window disturbed their caresses, and with small apologetic nips and licks, Frodo drew back and looked to where the little bird sang on the window sill, beckoning them out into the night with urgent cries. From within the smial, there were distant noises, as if someone were up and moving about from room to room in agitation. 

“We must go!” Frodo said, staggering to his feet and pulling Sam with him. “We must go now.” 

Sam groaned and, tugging Frodo to him, buried his face in the warmth of his neck, kissing and licking. “Must we go now?”

“Your bird tells us so, I think we should do as she says, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sam looked at the bird and felt a sudden rush of guilt. “I’m so sorry,” he cried. “I didn’t listen!”

The bird shook her feathers, as if his worries were of no consequence and chirped in alarm. _“Get out! Get out!”_

“Come now,” Frodo smiled, holding Sam by the hand. “Let us leave this place.”

Without another moment’s thought, Sam climbed up onto the barrels and launched himself out the window behind his love, following him out into the darkness, slipping on wet feathers as they ran up the road, the little bird melting into the moonlight as they went, her feathers drifting down, the last snow of the year. 

**_The End_ **


End file.
